


Help I'm Alive

by ab2fsycho



Series: Revolve [14]
Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: Azran Legacy Spoilers, I really, M/M, PTSD, Still not sorry, be warned, i didn't even need to be there, i have no better explanation for what happened here, i'm still ignoring vital info, if they even qualify as implications, implications of suicidal thinking, obviously, okay kids, they did this all by themselves, things get crazy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-19
Updated: 2014-08-19
Packaged: 2018-02-13 21:22:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2165652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ab2fsycho/pseuds/ab2fsycho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Locked in a room, Layton and Descole are finally forced to confront one another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Help I'm Alive

**Author's Note:**

> Words can't express how little control I had over this chapter. They did this. It wasn't me.
> 
> I say this as I worry if it came out okay. Let me know.

“Flora?” No response. “Flora!” He jiggled the handle of the door. “Flora, you better not have left!” But she must have, because he had heard the door shut moments before.

“This is not good,” Descole muttered, sliding out of bed slowly to come stand by Layton.

The professor looked to be a mixture of dumbfounded and fuming. “This isn't happening. This is absolutely not happening,” Layton muttered, stepping back and starting to pace. Descole raised an eyebrow. He'd seen the professor much angrier than this, but this level of miffed would be entertaining if Descole was presented with the opportunity to escape it. As it was, however, they were both trapped.

Turning to the door, he glared at it. He'd dealt with this door before, but thinking about that event in time was not going to help. It did, however, remind him of something important. Without turning to the professor, he asked, “Where's the second key?” Because Layton had made a second copy after Descole had locked him inside his room that one time.

He didn't need to look to know that Layton had paused before taking two large strides towards the nightstand. Descole heard him open the drawer and slam it shut before he answered with, “I have no idea.”

Descole placed one hand on his chin and the other on his hip. That girl was thorough. Nodding to himself, he nonchalantly declared, “Break it down.”

“What?” Layton asked incredulously.

“Well, I would, but given my circumstances—”

“We are not breaking down my door!” the professor spat. Oh yes, he was most irritated.

“How did you ever survive without Emmy Altava? She would have destroyed this door the second it was locked—”

“Well she's not here, is she!?”

Descole turned around just as Layton sat down in his chair, covering his face with both hands. Descole sighed. “Well, I tried to put forth some suggestions, but if you're going to just sit there I suppose I'll shut it.”

“Thank you,” the professor growled.

Descole's glare returned, this time focused on the professor. “Well what do you propose we do, oh great Professor Layton?!”

“I'm thinking!” After scowling a little longer at Layton, Descole rolled his eyes and gave up. Moving over to his suitcase, he decided it was about time he put on something more normal than the pajamas provided for him. Crouching down to open the thing, he forgot momentarily that he had a wound in his back. That is, he forgot until he twisted incorrectly. A small cry escaped him before he cut off the noise and forced himself to continue. Breathing a little heavier than before, he opened the case. As he did so, Layton asked, “What are you doing?”

“Putting on some real clothing.” Looking through the suitcase for the first time since it had arrived, he found that Raymond had not lost his ability to pack as much as possible into a small space. He caught himself smiling. He missed the old man, and hoped that wherever he was that he was safe from their enemy. Brushing the thought aside, he sifted through the clothing for what he wanted and pulled out a white shirt and his only pair of jeans. Both were comfortable and wouldn't irritate him too much while he was cornered in this room.

He hadn't realized he was being watched until the professor asked, “I didn't know you wore jeans.”

Descole felt him itching for a fight. To be honest, he was too. He just wasn't about to argue over the fact that he owned a pair of workman's trousers. Well, to him they were workman's trousers. “There's much you still don't know about me.” Sliding his shirt off, it grazed the bandaging over the sutures just enough to send a spike of pain down his back and side. Gritting his teeth against it, he pulled the shirt he'd chosen over his head and shoulder as carefully as he could manage. When that part was done, he sat on the bed facing away from Layton and proceeded to argue with his trousers.

“Yes, there is.” That statement sounded loaded, like Layton wanted to say more but was holding back. Descole was slightly grateful he did, because he was not primed and ready to contend with Layton while he was struggling to dress himself. As he tried not to stretch in ways that were damaging to his sutures, the professor asked, “Need any help?”

“No,” he answered a little too quickly. Pulling the jeans up his legs, he declared, “I am perfectly capable of doing some things on my own.”

“Last time you said something akin to that, I found you passed out on the bathroom floor.”

Descole's eyes narrowed as he buttoned up his trousers. Turning towards the other man, he prepared for the fight the professor was clearly trying to start. “That was different.”

“Are you actually willing to tell me what happened? Or are you going to dodge the issue entirely?” Descole looked away, facing the wall and folding his arms. Grinding his teeth, he felt his annoyance growing in response to the recollection of what had happened. The more he tried not to think about it, the more agitated Layton made him. Then Layton made the comment, “You're dodging.”

“Honestly, would you want to talk about it?! I don't think so!” And then Descole couldn't keep his mouth shut. “From what I can tell, you don't do much talking yourself.”

“Excuse me?”

Descole cursed himself, but it was too late to recant the statement. So he had to back it. “You're not exactly expressive yourself, you know. Half the time no one knows what's going through your damn head.”

“You think you're in a secure enough place to tell me that? Let me take a little guess at what triggered your episode!”

Descole stood, his spine stiffening as he turned to face Layton. “No!” he declared, pointing a finger at him.

Layton stood to meet his eye level. “You saw yourself in the mirror and had a flashback?”

“Yes! Now leave it!”

Layton's head tilted slightly and his eyes narrowed. “There was a broken bulb when I went to check the room again. That wouldn't happen to have had something to do with it, would it?”

“No!” he responded through gritted teeth. The only thing keeping his memory of the incident at bay was his anger, so he clung to the anger as best he could.

“The flash triggered you first, then seeing your image in the mirror?”

“Stop!”

Layton wasn't listening, though. “Of course, the mask had to be off for all of this to have truly bothered you.”

“If you don't stop—”

“Why else would seeing Professor Sycamore's—your glasses, really—upset you so much?”

“What are you trying to do, Layton?” Descole snarled.

“Your nightmares are of that day, aren't they? Of the Azran legacy?”

“If you think this is going to get me to talk, you're wrong!” He was shaking now, balling his fists as if that would stop his thoughts from returning to him.

“Did destroying the sanctuary and Targent finally bring you some respite? Or were you just as broken as before and didn't know how to deal with it?”

“Shut up!”

“What happened to you, Descole?! Why did you leave?!”

“I already told you—”

His volume increased. “Or should I call you by your other name? Would Desmond answer me?!”

Descole lost all semblance of composure then, voice rising to match the other man's tone. “What do you want me to say?!”

“The truth!”

“I gave you the truth! Why in bloody hell would you want to see me after that day?!”

“Because—”

“I spent almost an entire year using you! I used you and your friends for my own ends, and I wound up leading you all into a deathtrap!”

“No, Bronev led us into a deathtrap. We tried to stop him!”

“I promised I'd leave you be, alright?!”

Layton stopped and Descole sucked in a lungful of breath. He felt his rage begin to trickle out of him. He tried to stop it, to keep it up as a barrier, but he was steadily losing control. “Who did you promise?” Layton asked. Descole's throat was closing, and he didn't know how to avoid this. “Des, who?”

“Emmy.” He choked out the name before he could stop himself. “She and I agreed to leave. She found out who I was and I found out who she was, and we thought it best if we disappeared after. We went in knowing what this might do to you.”

It took Layton a moment for the knowledge to sink in. Then his back stiffened and he snarled, “So you thought leaving was the best answer?”

Descole sighed, his aggression slipping through his fingers as he clutched at his hair. “Why are you so obsessed with—?”

“If you were so determined to stay away, why did you come back?” Layton's voice was rising again.

Descole's stomach turned, nails digging into his chest. “I had no—”

“I doubt that!”

“I didn't come here of my own volition, you know!”

“So Raymond made you. Why?”

“Because he . . . he . . .,” Descole fumbled for the words, everything in his head flooding and spinning.

“Because he what?”

Descole let out a roar before he shouted, “Because he didn't want to watch me die!” His hands ripped from his scalp, perhaps pulling a few hairs with it. His fists were balled so tight his knuckles were white and his torso felt like there was a tornado twisting and turning within it. Words poured from his mouth without his consent. “I have wanted to die for three years and forcing me to come back to you was his last resort.”

Layton's expression was a mix of shock and anger and melancholy. After a few seconds, it was clear that anger had won out. He moved around the bed towards Descole as he spoke. “He forced you?”

That was the truth. Why was Layton getting angry with him? He'd told the truth. Straightening up, he found some resolve at last. When Layton was toe-to-toe with him, he said, “Yes.”

Something snapped in the professor. Descole could see it in his eyes. He couldn't identify it, but he felt he should be frightened. “Before you and the others came along, I'd spent seven years wanting to die. When all of you showed up, suddenly I had people, people who were close to me, who would miss me if something happened. And for all of you to just up and leave—,” he cut himself off with a huff of breath.

“Layton?” He started getting closer, pressuring Descole to back away. Holding up his hands, he wanted to abate the man's anger rather than encourage it this time. Something was off about this. Very off.

“I have not been alone in three years, and the first few weeks after Luke left I've been preparing for Flora to get sick of dealing with me and leave too. I couldn't tell her this, but she was picking up on it. I've been getting ready to be alone again, because the one person I thought would never leave my side, the one person who managed to keep me from going insane these past three years, is gone.”

Layton's anger was slowly rising, and Descole was beginning to recognize this level of rage. He'd seen it once before after all. It was like being trapped in the room with a coiled viper. “Layton, I—”

“And suddenly you're here, somehow alive and perhaps not so well, but alive all the same. Now tell me,” Layton backed him against the wall and Descole was too focused on the man in front of him to acknowledge the streak of pain that went through his injury, “what do _you_ expect _me_ to do?”

This rage was so much colder than he'd anticipated. He didn't know how to answer, didn't know how to resolve what he'd started. His back was aching from leaning into the wall too hard and all he wanted to do was run but he couldn't. He couldn't have possibly guessed Layton harbored this much resentment, and honestly he didn't know the man was capable of it. He could never have anticipated the level of upset the man had been hiding. Descole's head wouldn't stop spinning long enough for him to form a good answer, and the pain he was experiencing was distracting him more than anything else. Once again words came out and he wasn't entirely sure he was right in saying them. “I don't know.”

“Am I so difficult to be around that everyone feels the need to leave?”

Descole's eyes narrowed. “Is that what you're mad about? That everyone leaves?” He didn't wait for a response. “Well, I've got a terrible bit of news for you. Everyone leaves eventually. And most of the time, it's not willingly.”

“Yes, you looked so unwilling to leave when your back was to me and the sanctuary was crashing down around you.”

Descole's blood ran cold. “I had to.”

“Did you really?”

It was Descole's turn to snap, “Just how many times are you going to ask me if I meant to leave? And in how many different ways? I left! That's that! I got what I came for! I did what I had to do! I'd lost everything I held dear years before that day, and I had no idea what else I was going to do with my life let alone what I would say to you if I ever saw you again!”

This set off a chain reaction. “Apparently all you can say is you had no choice—”

“I spent so much time getting distracted by you—”

“—and that you were forced to face me again. Do you know—?”

“—that I lost sight of my goal and forgot that I could do it without you. I could bring down Targent—”

“—how often I thought of you when it was all said and done? Do you know—?”

“—without the help of the great Professor Layton, but no. Instead I decided to use you—”

“—how awful I felt because I didn't run back in and save you? You should know—”

“—because I got so distressed over the thought that Targent might get to you first—”

“—because you exploited every weakness you could find on me! Yes, you used me—”

“—and I was foolish enough to entertain the idea of developing—”

“—but I was ridiculous enough to think you might have actually—”

“—feelings for you!”

“—cared for me!”

The last portion was said in unison, taking both of them a long instance to realize what had just fled their mouths. When what had been said finally registered, they were taken aback. Neither knew how to respond to the others' own words. Layton even looked like he was ready to cover his mouth.

And that's when Descole felt it: the spear. The spear that had been poised to pierce his chest the moment he'd arrived here. He could have doubled over from the sensation, but he just grabbed his chest and inhaled. Exhaled. Inhaled. Exhaled. The pain didn't go away. Breathing just made the proverbial spear heavier in his chest, heavier than any of the nails and daggers that had been driven into him of late.

When he looked back up, Layton was no longer dazed. No, his brow was furrowing and the rage was coming back just as swiftly as it'd ran. He knew the words that were coming before he saw Layton's fist balling, and he wasn't ready for it because he'd been nothing but honest in this discussion. “Liar!” He punctuated the word by punching Descole in the jaw. 

Descole's head hit the wall with such a force that everything that had previously clouded his mind fled. The pain in his back quadrupled, the storm inside of him grinding to a halt. Worst of all, Layton had hit him hard enough not only to bruise and bust his lip, but to send his mask flying. Reaching up, ignoring the pain in his back as best he could, he touched the part of his lip that had split. He tasted the blood. Though his vision was blurry, he could make out just enough of Layton's face to see that he'd dropped his cold approach and was flabbergasted by his own actions. He'd taken several steps back and was holding up his hands like he hadn't known what had come over him. He was sorry.

But not as sorry as Jean Descole wanted him to be.

:)

Layton had lost control of himself for a moment and now he was about to suffer the consequences. He was not at all prepared for the distorted look Des gave him. He was not prepared to see him so enraged, especially without his mask on. He was certainly not prepared for the other man to launch himself at Layton full force.

They landed on the floor, Layton hitting his head hard, hat rolling away, as Des straddled his waist. His vision cleared just as Des was about to land his first punch. Falling back on old reflexes, Layton blocked the hit before reaching up and grabbing a handful of the other man's hair and twisting it. Des cried out, then retaliated by dropping his head to bite Layton's arm. It was Layton's turn to scream as he released Des's hair. With no warning, the other was able to land a punch in the professor's side and knocked the air out of him. He tried to curl his torso in response, but that was impossible with Des sitting on him. Des lifted his head, releasing Layton's arm, then punched him again in the other side. Instead of weakening Layton, though, the hit suddenly brought back the anger he had been feeling.

Des raised his fist again, and Layton grabbed it at the wrist. His other hand encircled Des's throat. The other man let out a deep snarl as his free hand grabbed at the professor's shirt collar. Pulling with all his strength, he ripped open the orange cloth. Clawing at Layton's exposed chest, neck, and face, Des didn't seem at all fazed by the tightening pressure around his throat. The more scratches Layton received, the more his blood boiled despite the discomfort.

Then Des's nails and fingers brushed the scar on Layton's chest and Des froze. His eyes widened, pupils growing larger as he realized what he was doing and who he was fighting. A choking noise finally escaped his mouth before Layton seized the moment of powerlessness and flipped the other man onto his back. Now with Des under him, Layton's anger rose to full capacity again and he had both hands around the other's neck. It was then that he saw fear in Des's eyes, the other looking up at him and grabbing at his arms. He arched his back, legs kicking and trying to get from under the professor. He wanted to scream, and he did. He was not expecting the words that left his mouth, though. “You left when I needed you the most!”

It took him five seconds to realize what he'd divulged. Des was already losing too much air, eyes fluttering closed. Though Layton's arms refused to budge, he felt his grip loosening on the other man's throat. When he was able to breathe again, he inhaled so loudly and deeply that he choked and coughed on his first breaths. Reaching beneath Layton's still curled hands to feel his throat, he shut his eyes and focused on steadying his breathing. The professor moved stiffly, at first sliding off the other, then collapsing on the floor beside Des with only his atrophied hands to hold him upright. Neither looked at the other.

Silence drove a wedge between them as Des sat up and gathered his breath. When Layton finally dared to look at him, the first thing he noticed was that the part of the back of his shirt was red. The top quarter of his wound had reopened, and it was Layton's fault. 

An egregious amount of dread set into Layton as he looked down. Des brought his knees up to his chest, hands clutching the skin above his heart as his breathing became labored. Without the mask, he must have felt vulnerable, unprotected. All Layton wanted to do was get away from what he'd done.

Des spoke first. “I'm sorry.”

“No, I—”

Des got up, then, fury bleeding from every muscle. Only, Layton somehow knew the rage was not directed at him. “I should have never come back.” Layton looked at him then. “I never should have sought you out in the first place!”

Layton got up then as Des started clutching his own forearms so hard his nails were digging into his own skin. “Des—”

“I should have stayed away as soon as I started getting attached!” Layton tried to reach for him, but Des pulled away and squeezed his eyes shut. “Don't!”

“Des, listen to me—”

“I never should have let it get to this point.” He covered his eyes, nails raking over his arms before trying to conceal the tears welling up, but Layton had already seen them. Layton would have left him alone had he not started digging his nails into his forehead. He grabbed Des's wrists and pulled them down, unintentionally bringing Des close enough for them to be chest-to-chest. “Let me go!”

“You're hurting yourself!”

“Says the man who was just strangling me!”

“I'm not letting go till you stop trying to hurt yourself!”

Terror flashed in Des's eyes as he froze and shivered in Layton's grip. “Please . . . please let go.”

Layton's hands slid from Des's wrists to his shoulders, providing an inch or two of distance between them as well. The man's shaking was not wholly abated but decreased with the change of grip and position. “I'm sorry too. I shouldn't have reacted the way I did.” He shouldn't have done a lot of things, but he regretted setting off this attack the most.

There was a long pause as Des stared blankly at Layton's chest, focused on the scar. Though it was unlikely Des could actually see it, he knew it was there. The tears he'd been hiding fell as he whispered, “I deserved it.”

Layton was so shocked to have heard that that he gripped the other man's shoulders and shouted, “Des! No you didn't!”

Des stiffened at the tightened grip and shouting, eyes widening again as the words escaped him, “I destroy everything I come in contact with.” Layton's guilt mounted there. On impulse, he pulled the broken man into an embrace that he expected the other to fight. Surprisingly, he didn't. He didn't return it, but he didn't pull away either. The last thing he uttered was so inaudible Layton almost missed it. “I should have never fallen for you.”

Whatever wall he'd had in place against his true feelings for the man he knew as both Desmond Sycamore and Jean Descole melted. Arms tightening around the other, he felt everything within himself shatter and give. Dizzy now, the only thing keeping him upright was the other. He didn't know he was crying until a tear pooled between his cheek and Des's hair. Oddly, the first thought that had come to mind was how very unstable the both of them were, how Flora had been right about him shutting everyone out. It was the logical thought. The more illogical thought that emerged came in the form of an impulse. Before he could stop himself, he pulled back his head just enough to place a kiss on Des's forehead. The other, who'd been stiff in his arms until then, looked at him then. For a moment, he looked as though he could see Layton clearly even without his glasses or mask. Hands slid up Layton's neck, and before he knew what was happening, Des's lips were on his.

:)

Everything was blurry, even his mind. He was surrounded by white noise and radio static, but somehow he knew Layton tasted the exact same as when they'd last kissed.

When the kiss broke, the static intensified and all the agony of the fight returned. Hurt lip, damaged sutures, sore throat and burning lungs, heavy chest, everything came flooding back. Opening his eyes, he fell into the familiar trap of blinking too much yet never dispelling the blurriness. With no control over his vocal chords, he didn't know he was whimpering from the pain until he ordered himself to stop.

“Hold on,” Layton said, his voice sounding louder in the static and making Des squint and flinch. He started pulling away. Without warning, Des's hand reached out and grabbed Layton's jacket sleeve. The room was lit in a way that when Layton had his back to him, Des couldn't see him. That bothered him. But Layton didn't pull away. Not immediately, at least. He placed a hand over Des's, then whispered, “I'm getting your mask. I'm not going anywhere.” That reassured him enough that he was willing to let Layton go. Somehow the professor mumbling, “As if I could leave anyway,” broke through the static. Des's lips curled up into a smile, an involuntary chuckle escaping. When Layton turned back to him (he could see this because of the orange shirt), the other man took his hand and turned it palm up. In it, he placed the mask.

Des lifted his free hand, tracing up Layton's arm to rest it on his shoulder. Using Layton to steady himself, he wiped his eyes with the back of his wrist before putting the mask back on. Exhaling loudly, his eyes focused again and he was able to relax. Well, as much as the pain would let him. He whispered, “Thanks,” before nearly doubling over and leaning into Layton. For someone who'd been ready to kill him mere minutes before, the professor was taking things fairly well now. It wasn't until Layton started moving him over to the mattress that he realized the mask wasn't helping him recover as quickly as it usually did. When Layton had him sitting at last, Des almost wanted to fall back onto the bed. What stopped him was the professor lifting his shirt up. Des stiffened. “What are—?”

“Your back is bleeding.” Des relaxed again, nodding as Layton proceeded to lift his shirt off. Layton took a seat beside Des to better assess the damage. Pulling back the bandaging, he soon let out a sigh. “Three sutures broke. It's hard to tell just how much has been compromised. I'll be able to get a better look at it and repair it when Flora finally lets us out. Till then, the gauze is ruined. You'll have to go topless until we can cover it up again.”

He nodded in response. “I just . . . I need to lie down,” because his head wasn't quite done spinning and the static wasn't entirely gone.

“Here,” Layton stood, giving Des room to lie down. He did, lying on the opposite side of the bed he had become used to sleeping on. Bringing his knees up to his chest, he curled in on himself and somehow managed not to further upset his gash. Closing his eyes, he sighed. He didn't open his eyes again until Layton asked, “What else can I do?”

He was afraid to ask verbally. In fact, his throat closed and disallowed him to. With a trembling hand, though, he squeezed the sheets in front of him and hoped he'd clearly indicated what he wanted. He wasn't sure the professor understood until the man shed his jacket and crawled into the space beside Des. Des let himself sigh again when the professor slid his arm under his head and draped the other over the uninjured part of his side. Opening himself to Layton's warmth, he let himself get lost in the professor's scent. Shutting his eyes, he was able to whisper, “Thank you. I'm sorry.”

Layton's hold on him tightened before one hand came up to brush the bruising, split part of Des's lip. “Not as sorry as I am.”

Des's fingers slid over the scarred part of Layton's chest. “I somehow doubt that.” Because Layton had only just begun to leave painful marks on him. Des had many older ones he felt the need to make up for.

It seemed they did not know as much about each other as they had originally thought.

**Author's Note:**

> I was not prepared for my own writing. I will go corner myself now.


End file.
